


WRAITH, dream smp

by AV4TARKORRA



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28806303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AV4TARKORRA/pseuds/AV4TARKORRA
Summary: Bianca Rosebane is beginning to think that her ghosts are behind her. The only bitter reminder of her past is the tremor in her hands that has left her unable to fight. She has traveled far away from her old land, to the arctic outskirts of L'Manburg where nobody dare venture.An old ally, known by his enemies as "the Blade" stirs up trouble when he comes asking for Bianca's help in destroying L'Manburg. When word spreads of Bianca's possible alliance with the Blade, it reaches the ears of a man very intent on quelling the rebellion. In the night, the advisor to the throne, Dream, takes a knife to Bianca's one true friend as a warning; if she tries to fight, Dream will make it his personal goal to kill her and everyone she loves.Bianca has always been violent. She thought that she was suppressing it in her years of retirement. Now, though, she knows that all this time, her thirst for blood has been pacing back and forth inside her chest like a caged tiger. Dream is getting a little too close to the cell bars, and Bianca is ready to sink her incisors into his murdering hands.
Kudos: 8





	1. [ 000 ] what do they know?

WRAITH, DREAM SMP  
❛ **prologue** , what do they know? ❜  
 _content_ : mention of drowning, storms, blood/gore, alcohol.

A storm rages on outside of the ship's circular windows, waves slamming the glass in an incessant attempt to gain entry and swallow another meal of mariners and cargo. The hull rocks back and forth, unsteady but unbroken. Anything that isn't bolted to the ground is sliding across the room; luggage nestles under cots, spare candles roll on grainy wood, pillows fall off of blankets. Each person inside hitches their breath when the waves consume the light spilling in through the windows, and breathes only when the ship rights itself once more.

A man sits in the corner, privately retching into a bucket. A woman pets back the hair of her child, singing softly to soothe the thing into sleep. A few people toss and turn in their sheets, trying to drown out the rapturous thunder. And, there's the table set up near the doorway where a game of poker is unfolding, men huddled over candlelight with glasses of beers sloshing froth onto their laps.

It's easy to determine who has been at sea before and who has not. Those experienced faces stand out against the sea of queasy ones. Most have had the common sense to move away from the windows lest a rogue wave cracks through the glass. Yet, one woman sits directly underneath one, her spine pressed against the windowsill, her knees tucked up to her chest. She seems unaffected by the miles of water stretching out behind her, unperturbed against the possibility of death. Her two hands are wrapped in dirty bandages, and the little of her fingers that are visible are black and blue with bruises. One fingernail is missing.

Across from her sits an old man, his face as wrinkled as a raisin. He wears many layers of clothing, but it's clear even from afar that he is emaciated. The hollows of his cheeks sink so far inward that his teeth are visible. His sunken brown eyes hold a dull glow, the only clue that there is intelligent life somewhere in his skeleton body. He nurses a bottle of liquor. In order to soothe himself, or perhaps pass time, he mumbles the words to a song nobody else knows and watches the ocean batter relentlessly above the woman's head.

A bolt of lightning cuts through the sky and is followed by a deafening clap of thunder that shakes the walls. A woman yelps, a few men spout prayers, and a baby begins to cry.

The old man looks at the woman under the window, who did not jump nor show any sign of alarm. The unshaven skin around his lips twitch, his scrappy beard coming alive for a moment. He takes a sip of beer, swallows hard, and points a finger at her with the same hand holding his bottle.

"You ought to be more scared of the sea, girl," he says, voice rough like gravel.

The woman moves her eyes from a spot on the ceiling to connect with his, but her chin stays tilted upward. Her stature speaks of arrogance, so relaxed in such an atypical situation that it gives the man pause. She assesses him for a moment and her face stays entirely void of expression.

"The sea doesn't scare me," she replies in monotone. "I've drowned before."

The old man pulls his lips into a thin line and says, "And it'll drown you again, given the chance."

"Perfect," she shoots back. "Then, I won't have to listen to your singing."

Surprisingly, the old man laughs a bitter laugh and takes another swig of his beer as if toasting to her. He crosses his ankle over his other knee and extends his hand toward her, bottle tipping toward the woman.

The woman takes the bottle and tips it back. Her fingers around the bottle shake horribly, and the old man thinks for a moment that she'll drop it and spill the rest of his alcohol. Instead, she holds tight. Liquor streams down her throat until she seals off her lips, swallowing hard and wiping her mouth with her shoulder. Trembling, she passes him the bottle again.

"You've got one helluva wound there," he says, still startled by her tremor. "Your hands look like cuts of pork."

She nods, leaning back into the wall. She puts her wrists on her knees and lets her hands hang down. Even stationary, they twitch. "They'll heal. Eventually."

"Who did that to you?"

"None of your business," the woman slants him a corrosive glare. "It doesn't matter, anyway. We're going to new lands."

"New lands," the man repeats in solidarity. He holds up his drink with a glum smile. "I'll drink to that."

"You're a drunk," she says, "you'd drink to anything."

"And I'm not ashamed of that," he says once he finishes another long draw from his glass.

For a long moment, both of them fall into silence. The man looks out of the window once more, at the lightning flashing on the horizon and the cerulean waves slapping the bow. By morning, they will be at the harbor of Apsdrem. For now, they are still under the watchful eye of Davey Jones.

"You coming to Apsdrem to seek asylum?" the old man asks her, still staring at the window. "I heard it's a good place for people like us. People who're running."

The woman considers him for a long moment. "I'm coming to start new. I don't care about Apsdrem, I care about the land beyond it. If there's anything I've learned, it's that people are a disease."

"A lone wolf," the man acknowledges. "Well, may you find peace in the land beyond Apsdrem."

"And may you seek asylum," she returns.

"I'll drink to that."

Another clap of thunder rumbles the hull. The baby cries louder, a man loses his dinner, and a woman counts the beads of her rosary. The woman watches the ceiling, hands trembling fiercely and face remaining blank.


	2. [ 001 ] therefore you and me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blade finds Tommy living in his wine cellar, and he proposes a solution to his exile.

WRAITH, DREAM SMP   
❛ **chapter one** , therefore you and me. ❜   
_content_ : blades, violence, explosives, mention of mental illness, angsty family situations.

There was a moment, if however small and inconsequential, that some sort of foreign warmth wrapped its smooth hands around Tommy's heart and he felt his posture slacken. It was a warmth he had not felt in weeks. The cold he suffered could not be solved by a blanket or extra coat. It was as if this whole time in exile, he had been freezing to death, and he only realized it once he got someplace safe; with a friend, with his remaining discs, with his compass. It's reassurance, he thinks. Reassurance that he's away from Dream and with somebody else.

_(Somebody who killed your best friend.)_

Tommy had to physically shake his head to remove himself from that train of thought. Yes, he was living in the wine cellar of a man who executed his best friend in cold blood. But Tommy was clever, albeit too passionate at the best of times. If he was clever enough, he could leech off this man without him noticing. It was far from a foolproof plan. Most of it relied on wishful thinking and false hope. Gods, he knew this, and yet he was too tired to care.

At the end of the day, even though a part of him was hesitant, he wanted the murderer to find him. There was an optimistic hope that the Blade would not put his sword to Tommy's throat and cut it open. After all, how could the Blade forget their history? They shared the same blood. Brothers, once united, now separated. Maybe Tommy was just a fool who wanted his childhood back. Maybe he deserved to die by his own brother's hands.

 _How fucking poetic_ , Wilbur's voice chimed in at the back of Tommy's mind. It was something Wil would say right now if he could hear Tommy's thoughts. Wil was a sucker for romantic tragedies written by authors long-gone, and even before he died, he compared the rise of L'Manburg to the rise of the Roman empire. If Wil were still alive, Tommy liked to think that Wil would say something profound. Unfortunately, Tommy was anything but profound, and he could only feel nostalgia for words never said.

If Wil were here, he'd say...

"Tommy?"

Tommy didn't initially realize that this voice is outside of his head when he heard it, and when he made the distinction, he whipped around. A familiar figure, half-shrouded in the darkness inching in from the cellar door, held his weight on the wall to refrain from falling over in shock. His armor glowed a dim purple, illuminating the face that Tommy had been conflicted about seeing for weeks.

Tommy's gaze flicked to the door. When he'd arrived at the cabin somewhere north of L'Manburg, he'd been diligent to make sure that the Blade wasn't home before he rooted through chests and claimed the cellar. The cellar was unused, and therefore, Tommy thought that it was the safest bet. He stole a few golden apples, armor pieces, and various other riches from the Blade's supply and he slept better than he had since leaving home. He even took care to lock the cellar door just in case, so that while the Blade went to get the key to unlock it, Tommy could escape through a window.

Now, it was clear that all of that diligence has gone nowhere. Tommy was trapped, a bird in a cage, and there was no way he could bolt for the window before the Blade got to him.

A tense few moments pass between them as the realization sank into both of them. They're reunited, and this can only go one of two ways: either the Blade kills Tommy, or he kicks him out. Either option was as good as throwing Tommy off of a plane with no parachute. Despite this, Tommy did not feel worried. Death would be a good ending to all of this.

Tommy watched his brother's microexpressions. The Blade's lip curled upward to reveal his large incisors, nose scrunching in disgust. His ears, sticking out from both sides of his head, twitched as they always did when he was annoyed. Tommy was surprised that he remembered this last fact. He hadn't seen him in months, yet there was a rusty part designated to deciphering the Blade's thoughts that still lingered somewhere in his brain.

The Blade was the first one to speak. As he opened his mouth, his posture straightened and he let go of the wall. "What are you doing in my house?"

Tommy did his best to stand as tall as possible in his corner of the cellar. "This is mine now. You never use this cellar, anyway. I've decided to live here."

Anger flashed across the Blade's face, his black eyes swirling with a warning. "You're not in charge here," he then seems to take in the cellar in its whole. Truth be told, Tommy did not bother organizing any of his loot. The Blade's potions lay strewn about the place in disarray, along with spare armor and food. A cluster of delicate ender pearls sat dangerously close to the edge of a shelf. The Blade's expression grew impossibly darker. "You took my things? You've been rummaging through my chests like a... what, like a raccoon?"

"Listen," Tommy said, and he loathed the humor in his voice. He knew that this was a serious situation, but something about the Blade's anger didn't seem threatening. This man had killed thousands of men, and Tommy felt the need to laugh in his face. He choked down a smile. "I need to get the rest of my discs back from L'Manburg, and I came north for a fresh start. I found your home and, well—"

"—You robbed me and decided to make yourself at home," the Blade finished expectantly.

"No, I—Hey!" Tommy began, but was interrupted when the Blade rushed forward to the pile of miscellaneous junk Tommy had piled in the corner. Tommy tried to provide a barrier between himself and the goods, but the Blade pushed him aside like he was nothing but a ragdoll. His armor clanked as he stooped down and started to rifle through, Tommy attempting in vain to pull him away.

"You took my gold and emeralds?" The Blade grabbed a handful of precious metals and jewels in disbelief as if he couldn't believe it. Bested by a teenager... that had to sting.

Tommy swiped them out of the Blade's grip. "They're not yours, obviously. They're in my hands right now."

"And my potions?!" The Blade grabbed for the vials on top the bottom shelf. He read the labels with increasing horror as he realized just how much Tommy had stolen.

"Well, my friend, you clearly need to cool down," Tommy reached for one of the potion bottles and popped the cork off of the top. The smell of pine needles and merlot filled the air as Tommy tipped the opening over, pouring out a waterfall of bright purple liquid onto the Blade's head.

The potion immediately flattened the rogue strands of pink hair that had come undone from the Blade's intricate braid. It ran in thick streams down his face, armor, and shoes before dripping onto the stone floor in fat drops. The Blade was silent as the bottle emptied, and eventually, it ran out. He was soaked, head-to-toe, in a rich-smelling potion.

Suddenly, as if the anger finally boiled over, the Blade struck. Tommy, even after all his years of combat, didn't see the sword until the pointy end was poised underneath his adam's apple. The Blade's movements were fluid, calculated. It was as if the sword was an extension of his arm. Tommy gulped, and he felt a superficial cut form where metal and skin hit.

"No, Tommy, you listen to _me_ ," the Blade growled. "I was nearly executed earlier by a butcher's army, so I'm not in the mood for games. You will hand me my stuff back of your own accord, or your head will be hung over my mantlepiece by tonight."

A nervous laugh whistled out of Tommy's mouth as he tried to look at the Blade's face and not the sword. "I'm not able to leave. But I'll explain if you want me to."

"You're really inconveniencing me right now—"

"I'll explain, alright?" Tommy said. He looked in between the sword and his brother's face. "Could you maybe lower that thing?"

"Explain," the Blade replied. He didn't move the sword.

Not in the mood to get his head cut off in a wine cellar, Tommy sighed and began. "I was alone—well, living with my friend Dream. He is my friend, I think. It's been a confusing forty-eight hours. Anyways, I've realized that although Dream's been my friend for a long time, he's a bit of a wrong'un and I hate him. Right now, he has my discs. And, I don't know if you know this, but I've been exiled from L'Manburg."

"I've heard about that," the Blade said, and now his lips quirked upward in amusement. He was smiling at Tommy. "You did all of that work for your country and you got exiled by them."

Tommy looked down, suddenly sad. "Yeah," he faced the Blade once more, "but, I've realized that the source of all these wars had been my discs. So, I want to get them back. I was working really hard for a while, but then I thought..."

"Why not steal from the Blade?"

"Yeah," Tommy replied. He shrugged and took a deep breath. Something in his facial features hardened. "And I may be a bit confused about my past and emotions, but I remember what you did. I remembered you blowing up Toby and Schlatt's command. I don't need your help, you're obviously not trustworthy. I can get the discs back on my own."

Tommy couldn't tell if he was imagining the amusement that darted across the Blade's face. The Blade held his sword at Tommy's throat for a moment longer before stepping back. The tip of the sword scratched against the stone as the Blade twirled it around his hand and re-sheathed it. Despite the fact that the two of them were the same height, Tommy felt as if he was looking up at his counterpart.

"Let me tell you something, Tommy: they took everything from you," the Blade's expression fell flat once more as he recalled past discretions. "L'Manburg, those guys, they exiled you, they left you for dead. Whatever Dream did to you happened... And you know what? They tried to take everything from me, too. They put Phil—our dad—under house arrest, they stole my horse, they took all of my items."

Tommy watched as the Blade schemed. He folded his hands, nails sharp like claws, behind his back and looked at Tommy as if examining a lab rat.

"I'm thinking this can go one of two ways, Tommy," the Blade held up one slender finger. "One: you could get out of my house because you can't stay here. Or, we could team up and we could take down L'Manburg and get your discs back."

Tommy's eyebrows creased and he immediately stepped back, shaking his head vehemently. "You destroyed L'Manburg, right? You killed Toby, right?"

"Yes, I'll never deny that," the Blade said in monotone.

"Then no," Tommy spat. He was surprised at the venom in his own voice. "Get out of the cellar and leave me alone. I won't team up with you."

"You aren't allowed to stay," the Blade replied haughtily.

"Fine," Tommy said. He stooped down and began to gather things into his arms. Potion bottles rattled, gems fell to the ground, armor clanked. He started shoving all of his stolen goods into his satchel.

"What are you—?" the Blade made a reach for Tommy's shoulder, but Tommy stood up and slung his satchel over his shoulder.

Tommy stormed to the door to the cellar and burst through it, out into the chilly air. The wind cut right through his clothes, but he didn't dare pull his jacket closer to him. He refused to be seen as weak by his older brother. Especially not now, when he had so clearly defied him. He trudged through the snow in his tattered boots, back south where he was previously in exile with Dream.

"Do you even want your discs back?" the Blade called from the doorway, his voice slicing through the winter air.

"I will never team with you!" Tommy yelled over his shoulder.

"Fine! But you'll never succeed."

This gave Tommy pause. He stopped in his tracks and the clutch on his satchel strap grew tighter. Abruptly, he turned back around to face the house. The Blade still stood in the doorway. In the sun, it was easier to see the similarities he had to Wilbur. Dark eyes glinting with mischief, lanky frame that cannot hide behind layers of armor, rosy cheeks accentuated by the cold. Tommy had to focus on the parts that were not similar to Wilbur to pull himself from a sudden bout of sadness; the Blade's pinkish hair tied into a shoulder-length braid, the bejeweled crown, the pig ears that stick out on either side of his head, the large incisors. At this moment, Tommy gripped hard on his anger and used it to pull away from his grief.

"I can get the discs back myself," Tommy retorted. He made to turn around again, but the Blade stopped him once more.

"You don't even have a house. You were living in my floorboards like a pest," he laughed sharply, antagonizing.

"If we're serious for a moment," Tommy took a deep breath, looking down at the snow to hold back the frustration brewing on his face. The fist clutching his satchel was shaking. "You killed my best friend."

"Oh, yeah?" the Blade strode forth until he was face-to-face with Tommy. Tommy forced himself to lock eyes with him. "He exiled you, Tommy. Does Toby think you're his best friend?"

This made a string of cold air escape through Tommy's mouth as if he was just punched in the gut. Tommy looked at the Blade in shock and took a subconscious step backward. The Blade smiled, for he knew that he had Tommy dangling on a leash.

The Blade continued, "You see, I know a lot about putting trust in the wrong people. We've both been used, don't you see it? I've been used as a weapon for L'Manburg, you've been used as a chipping coin in a political battle with Dream. But what's the point? What's the point of a government if it sells out its citizens? You wanna know what's driven you and Toby apart? The government. Dream and his rule over Toby has corrupted him. Without that influence, you can have your discs and your Toby. We need to destroy L'Manburg. Join me."

Tommy considered this for a long moment, scanning the Blade's face for any sign of a lie. His brother's face was angry, but this anger was not directed towards him. It was aimed toward the thing that tore apart his life, the presidency. This rare passion on the Blade's face pushed Tommy forward, gaining that step he lost seconds before.

"You promise, if I join you, you'll help me get back my discs?" Tommy asked.

"I will help you get your discs back," the Blade replied.

"I won't help you destroy L'Manburg."

"We can narrow down the details later, Tommy. For now, we can just do minor terrorism against L'Manburg."

A smile pulled at Tommy's lips. "I am a big fan of minor terrorism."

"That's just what I wanted to hear," the Blade let out a huff of a laugh and stepped back from Tommy. "Follow me."

The Blade began to walk away without seeing if Tommy was following him. Tommy rushed to catch up with him, satchel clanging against his hip. They were walking past the house, toward a few stone hills nearby.

"I don't want to be your friend, either," Tommy enforced. "I don't want to tear down governments. I'm fine with minor terrorism, but not the whole 'anarchy' thing."

"I'm fine with not being your friend," the Blade said, still walking briskly. "Besides, I have more people to help blow up L'Manburg."

"More..." Tommy stopped walking for a moment as he considered what this meant. When he realized that the Blade was still walking toward the hills, he raced to catch up. "More people?"

"I'll tell you about her once I show you something," the Blade replied.

"' _Her?_ '" Tommy asked, incredulous. "You know a woman?"

The Blade slanted Tommy a glare that told him to shut his trap. "Like I said, I'll tell you about her after."

The Blade stopped walking and Tommy noticed that they had stopped in front of a flat hillside. Tommy looked at it warily, as if it had teeth. The hill itself rose perhaps fifty feet into the sky, and the face of it was completely flat. The stone was untouched, dirt clinging to the cracks.

"Tommy," the Blade began slowly, staring up at the mountain. "I haven't shown anybody this. Not even Phil. I didn't want him to see this side of me. The truth is, I've been trying to resist the voices. I've been working on a hobby, just a _little_ hobby."

Tommy looked at the Blade inquisitively as he walked toward the flat wall.

"I want you to stand back," the Blade said. Tommy obeyed, planting his feet firmly into the snow.

"Will I die?" Tommy asked, half-joking.

"No," the Blade laughed dryly. "What would be the point in that? I could've stabbed you a while ago..." he paused and examined the hill once more. "You see this wall?"

"Yeah."

The Blade pressed down on a section of the wall, and suddenly, the ground became alive. Tommy watched in horror as the stone began to slide into the floor below, revealing a cavern built deep into the mountain. Stone grinded on stone, and Tommy had to reach up to cover his ears. As the stone wall collapsed fully and the hidden room was in full view, Tommy's knees grew weak. The entire room was lined with wither skeleton skulls, mounted like deer heads on every available inch of space. Chests lined the floors, and Tommy could only imagine the goods hidden within. Three full sets of netherite armor stood at attention on stands, right in front of two crosses made of soul sand.

"What the fu—?!" Tommy began.

"Welcome home, Theseus!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys didn't mind the fact that bianca isn't in this chapter. i wanted to set the scene a little more before we jump into the plot. some chapters will contain her, some won't. i like writing all characters of the dream smp so we might get ghostbur or ranboo or even dream pov.

**Author's Note:**

> in case it wasn't already abundantly clear that i'm mentally ill, here's a minecraft fanfiction!!! there won't be any romantic stuff in this book because a lot of the ccs have expressed discomfort with shipping, so if you find yourself liking a pairing, PLEASE keep it to yourself. no harm is intended by this fic. i'm planning on the timeline spanning from tommy's exile to the fall of l'manburg, but depending on how future streams go, i might continue onwards. 
> 
> "apsdrem" is a play on "dream smp." i just scrambled some of the letters. i hope u guys enjoyed this little introduction into bianca/her past. we're gonna jump right into the good stuff now so stay tuned (: 
> 
> if you want graphics, face claims, and more, please check out the wattpad version of this book! i'm @AV4TARKORRA and the book is under the same name. if you tell me you're from AO3 i'll probably cry of happiness. hope you guys enjoy!


End file.
